Five resin urns, dark as deep water, standing on fragments of concrete columns: Cenotaph I–V. Poured layer by layer, the concrete draws depth and time up from underground. Five empty tombs cast from my father’s urn. The ashes have been scattered. They keep nothing now. They carry sound.

The sculptures are left raw. Bubbles, mould seams, a lid still in place. One plinth leans; I do not correct it.

I practise what I call Heavy Meditation for Guitar: seated, I sing OMs and wordless mantras into the pickups of my guitar. Practice of Death (Melete Thanatou) is its most radical form, in its duration. The voice comes back out through the urns and fills the room.

The title, Gnothi Seauton, takes up the inscription on the Temple of Apollo at Delphi. In Rome, a memento mori mosaic in the Baths of Diocletian pairs it with a skeleton. To know oneself is to know one’s mortal condition.

The project brings together these sculptures and the performance that activates them. Its syncretism is that of my practice, which moves forward by hybridisation. Plato defines philosophy as a practice of death. So is meditation.